Leaves fall turning turning to the ground,
by the front eaves racing, following the wind;
morning voices seem to speak to me
as they whirl and toss in headlong flight.
An empty hall in the yellow dusk of evening:
I sit here silent, unspeaking.
The young boy comes in from outdoors,
trims the lamp, sets it before me,
asks me questions I do not answer,
brings me a supper I do not eat.
He goes and sits down by the west wall,
reading me poetry–three or four poems;
the poet is not a man of today–
already a thousand years divide us–
but something in his words strikes my heart,
fills it again with an acid grief.
I turn and call to the boy;
Put down the book and go to bed now–
a man has times when he must think,
and work to do that never ends.
translated by Burton Watson
Very timely for us in the southern hemisphere. And yes, there are times when a man must think.
PS were there any female Chinese poets back then?
Yes, and I’ve posted quite a few but don’t specify gender. Check out Li Ch’ing-chao, one of thje most famous from the Sung Dynasty. I should post more of her work now that you remind me.